These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.
SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS
Part One: ACCLAMATIONS
Ch. 21
STORM WARNINGS
Dozens of exotic blooms in glittering crystal vases to my Beta, SHERLOCKSSCARF, who came through literally at the very last minute. This chapter is tighter, crisper and has the sharp scent of impending danger due to her eagle eye.
WARNINGS: None to speak of. Mention of dead body. John Watson is a BAMF. Mycroft can be a cold-blooded ass. Sherlock is rude. We love Molly Hooper !
OooOooO
Every mystery novel I ever read, the great detective was such an arrogant fuck you could replace 70% of his dialogue with 'Are you stupid?' and the conversation would still make sense.
NisiOisiN, Zaregoto 1: Book 1: The Kubikiri Cycle
OooOooO
At first glance, John thinks he sees a stylized pictograph in the deepest Indian ink, such an intense blue it appears black. He notes seemingly random swirls of indigo against the slightly lighter grain of the violin backing.
He blinks and the letters arrange themselves into something resembling words. They are phrases painted in French, he thinks, which he barely reads under the best circumstances.
But it is not the unfamiliar words that make his gut clench.
It's what is stamped above them – a small, roughly-inked impression which stands out against the paler wood. It appears to be a simplified version of the RAMC crest.
And above that, a single word inked in script, no more legible than the others. He narrows his eyes to attempt to make it out. No luck.
John's eyes move back to the crest with its single serpent. What the royal fuck?
Beside him, Sherlock gasps slightly, and then stiffens. The detective turns abruptly and walks to the window and stands there, his elegant back to the room. He does not speak, but his fists clench in his suit pockets.
John glances up at Mycroft.
The elder Holmes brother frowns, and then bends to snap two photos with his mobile, which seems to appear out of nowhere.
He straightens, shoots a quick glance at his brother's silent figure against the window and turns away from John. His fingers find and tap a speed dial and five seconds later, he speaks urgently with his PA.
At the window, Sherlock considers the plane tree outside, his mind a whirl. He knows John frowns, that a small line bisects the perfect space between the soldier's pale eyebrows. He knows this without turning to see John's face, as he knows so many things about the doctor.
For instance, he knows that John's left hand clenches and unclenches. He knows the doctor's dark blue eyes, a moment ago the color of the deepest ocean on a clear summer's day, have now turned a murky shade, doubtless with puzzlement.
He knows that John is confused and that, in about eight seconds, the doctor will turn to observe Sherlock at the window to demand answers.
He has none to give.
Sherlock knows that John does not read French, and even if he did, this particular phrase would be beyond the soldier's skills. As it is, it took the sleuth all of three seconds to place the quote and when he does, it still does not keep him from flinching at the painted phrase.
It's not the words that bother him, well, not so much. It's the RAMC insignia. And the single splash of red ink that bisects it.
John reaches out with a hesitant fingertip.
Mycroft returns to stand by the violin case.
"Best not, John. Prints," he says, his tone flat.
"Yeah. Okay." John notes the stiffness of Mycroft's posture and the rigid set of his shoulders.
"There won't be any," says Sherlock. Nevertheless, John withdraws his hand.
Mycroft studies the insignia and its flowing inscription for a moment, then looks across the room where his brother stands, framed by the light from the window.
John glances from one man to the other. "Someone care to fill me in?" he asks.
"Sherlock," says Mycroft, his tone a prompt.
"Mycroft," Sherlock answers. He does not turn toward the room.
God save him from stubborn Holmes brothers. John looks back down at the inky swirls.
Tattoo. It's an RAMC tattoo. Only . . . his thoughts trail off and his left hand clenches against his side. But what is the single word painted above it?
"Tenacious," Sherlock supplies. His tone is void of expression.
"Okay," says John. He no longer bothers to marvel at the fact that the detective frequently answers his unspoken thoughts.
"And this means what, exactly?"
Try as he may, John cannot read the dark letters. He muses out loud. "It's the RAMC insignia. Well, nearly." He lifts his head to look into the elder Holmes' eyes. "Could it be – well. Is this a code of some sort?"
"You might call it that," Mycroft muses. He waits for his younger brother to speak.
"This is – it's French, then?" John tries to master his growing impatience as he glances back at Sherlock.
"Yes, John, obviously. Do try to keep up."
John's eyes narrow. "Are we done playing silly buggers?" he asks coolly.
Mycrofts mobile rings in his pocket. He fishes it out, listens for a moment, says "Now, please." And drops it back in his suit pocket.
"Sherlock." This time Mycroft's tone is a warning and John has frankly had it up to here with noncommunicative Holmes brothers. He crosses his arms and stands back from the violin case.
"No, Mycroft," says Sherlock.
John's eyes narrow as he looks from one brother to the next.
"It has to be done, Sherlock. I've been remiss. It should have been done several days back. And now –"
Sherlock finally turns to face the room. He ignores John's growing irritation and addresses his brother.
"And now that there's an interesting puzzle, you want to take it away. Typical."
"Okay. Enough." John moves to stand next to Sherlock. Sherlock's mouth clenches in a thin line. He doesn't want to see John's eyes. He can't look at his killer healer just now. A rush of images fills his mind's eye while the events of the last few weeks play out in his brain.
He cannot. Not now. Not after the drugs and hospital stays, the lingering doubts about John's health and possible long term effects of Franks' injections. He thinks of the growing belligerence John has displayed in the last few weeks. His vast mind replays the events in the Wellington and at the mansion and later, in the Holmes estate. John, pulling them all to safety. Mycroft's dead agent. John's body next to his as they lay under the stars and the trees.
He. Just. Cannot.
"Sherlock," John says. The ex-soldier's voice brings with it a wash of hot desert winds and the sweet tang of gun oil.
The detective opens his gray-green eyes to look down into dark blue ones gone the color of gunmetal, a perfect match to John Watson's voice of steel.
John looks up at him steadily; one strong hand rests on the detective's wrist.
Sherlock straightens. What did I ever do to deserve this remarkable man?
John tugs at his wrist. "Come on. Explain this to me so we know what we are facing, yeah?"
And I said danger and here you are.
He opens his mouth to speak but it's Mycroft's cool tones that interrupt the tiny interlude.
"Je peux être assez tenace, Monsieur Holmes. Garde ton chevalier."
Mycroft's accent is impeccable. John tightens his grip on Sherlock's wrist, then lets go. He stands back.
"My apologies, John. I know you do not speak French," Mycroft says.
"This isn't father," interrupts Sherlock. John frowns at the detective's slightly hoarse tones. He glances between the two men.
Mycroft looks at his watch, then at his brother. "Agreed. Some secondary party appears to be involved here."
"Adair," Sherlock says.
Mycroft's shoulders raise a fraction of an inch. John fears he may get whiplash looking from one tall Holmes to
John clears his throat. "And you know this isn't – Nicholas Holmes - because?"
"Our father never spoke French around us, John," Sherlock says steadily. He watches Mycroft steadily the entire time he speaks. "English, German, Italian, Latin on occasion, but never French."
John frowns. "Not sure what you are saying here," he begins.
"Our mother is half French, John. When they had a falling out, he stopped using the language. In fact, he forbade the both of us to speak it around him. This is not something our father would do, besides the obvious fact that this is theatrical and childish. This has the sense of a game being played."
"A game?" John stares at the detective. Someone else used to play games with Sherlock Holmes.
He starts to speak butMycroft goes on, "May I remind you, brother mine, of the name given to this particular instrument?"
"Yes, yes, Mycroft. Obvious. Again, absurdly theatrical. It only serves to point to Adair."
Mycroft smiles grimly at his younger brother, then turns toward John.
"Would someone please tell me what this damn thing says," John asks. His tones betray his utter lack of patience.
'He's getting angrier by the minute, Sherlock thinks. Any minute now, any second -
Mycroft crosses to the case and hesitates, one hand on the hasp.
"It says, 'I can be tenacious, Mr. Holmes.'
Sherlock stirs in impatience.
Mycroft continues. "Actually, the more exact translation is "I can be stubborn, Mr. Holmes." I believe this to be an obvious word play on the name of this particular instrument."
"Which is," John prompts.
"Tenace," says Mycroft.
"Tenace," John repeats. "Tenace. As in … tenacious?"
He turns toward his Holmes, who merely nods.
John sighs. "Okay." He looks back at Mycroft. "And the rest of it?"
"Guard your knight," says Sherlock, his voice hoarse.
John's eyes narrow. A single pulse begins to pound at his temple.
No one bothers to ask who the 'knight' in question is.
All three men look into the open violin case, its torn crimson velvet ripped back to reveal the rough outline of the RAMC insignia, missing its laurel wreath. The word Tenace is painted at the top in a swirl of dark ink where the crown would normally appear. The French phrases in question take the place of the motto In Arduis Fidelis.
And all three men stare at the single bright splash of red paint that bisects the rod of Asclepius.
A single line.
Like a dagger.
Or a sword.
OooOooO
Lori holds the lovely dress in front of her and studies herself in the mirror. Behind her, Joe lounges on their bed, a small orange kitten in his hands. He tickles the kitten's soft stomach and the dimunitive creature bats at his large hand and purrs.
Joe laughs and looks up at Lori.
"Gorgeous," he says solemnly.
"Do you really think so?" Lori presses the silk fabric against her and frowns. "Is it too –
"Too what?" Joe prompts. The kitten jumps at his wrist, then attempts to crawl up his arm.
Lori sighs. "I don't know. Too long? Too short? Too tight? Not tight enough? I usually don't have a problem with being so short. Never mind, Joe. I have no idea what I'm saying or doing lately."
She crosses to the closet to hang up the lovely creation. Her small hands gently smooth away a wrinkle or two. She shuts the closet door. It wouldn't do to have cat scratches up and down the cream-colored silk.
Joe scoops the kitten up and sets it on his broad shoulder. Then he stands and crosses to his lady love. He bends to hug her gently, his arms going clear around the tiny body. Lori lays her head against his chest and listens to his strong heartbeat. The kitten plays with the ends of her hair. She smiles softly and touches a velvety paw with a fingertip.
"What's really wrong, Sweetheart?" His voice is softly muffled against her dark hair.
She considers. "Nothing. Everything."
"It's your Dad, isn't it?"
Lori nods and tries not to cry. She rubs her cheek against the cotton of his shirt. "Yeah. I mean. I know it's silly –"
"No, it's not. Of course, you want him here. I'm just sorry that it's not going to happen."
Lori shuts her eyes. She can hear the kitten purring.
"I know. And I'd be silly to keep dwelling on it, Joe."
"But?" He pulls back and frames her face with his two large hands. She smiles up at him.
"I do have an idea, however."
Joe scoops the little cat off his shoulders and holds it in his palm, purring gently between them.
"Tell me."
She does.
He grins. "I think it's fantastic. You should call him immediately. In fact, I'm surprised you haven't done so already."
"But it's so last minute. I didn't even think of it until last night. But, well, it just seems to be right, you know?"
He smoothes an errant strand of hair back from her face and looks into her dark brown eyes.
"Call him now. Immediately. I bet he says Yes before you can get the words out."
Lori's eyes light up. "Truly? Okay then."
Joe sets the kitten back on his shoulders and crosses to the door. "I'll leave you alone to make the call. Someone's got to do the cooking around here."
Lori grins and picks up her cell phone.
"John Watson."
"Doctor Watson? It's Lori Hansen. I – I have a favor to ask."
"Whatever it is, the answer is Yes."
She laughs. "Wait until I ask. You may not agree so quickly."
OooOooO
Molly Hooper drops her two bulging totes on her desk and exchanges her knitted jumper for her familiar lab coat. She glances around the morgue, hums appreciatively at the obvious cleanliness of the surroundings – good to know that things were kept up in her absence - and goes for coffee, her ponytail swinging.
A few minutes later, she returns with a steaming cup of insipid brew. It won't compare to the frankly amazing French coffee she has enjoyed on her extended vacation in Paris, but it's liquid and it's hot and that's all that matters.
She pushes through the doors of the morgue, and then stops.
A tall man, a stranger to her, stands a few feet away. Everything about him from his dark suit to his direct manner and focused gaze screams official business. She looks from him to the draped body on the gurney in the middle of her morgue.
"Ms. Hooper? My name is Jacob Lynn. Welcome back from vacation."
Molly's eyes widen. "Welcome – back?" she croaks. She clears her throat. "Sorry. I'm sorry. You just startled me. A bit."
"I apologize. That was not my intention."
Jake tilts his head at her. This is when she notices the bandage on the side of his head, where his curls have obviously been shaved. There are bruises still evident around what must have been a serious head wound.
Suddenly nervous, Molly clasps her hands in front of her and aims for calm professionalism.
A slight smile plays around Jake's lips. He's taken an instant liking to Sherlock's Ms. Hooper.
"I – how did you know I have been on vacation?"
"Well, it wasn't a secret now, was it?" As if he senses his presence causes her discomfort, he attempts to put warmth in his voice.
She frowns. "No. No, I guess not."
Jake turns toward the gurney with its silent form. A file folder lies on top of the sheeted body. Deftly, he hands it to her. She takes it from him, still frowning in confusion.
"This young man's name is Ryan Jones. We need to know what he died of. We suspect a delayed poison of some type, possibly cyanide or a derivative. We need to know how it was administered. And we need to know it now."
Molly glances at the printed label on the file folder – a short series of letters and numbers which mean nothing to her - then flips it open and reads down the page.
"I believe you will find everything in order."
"I, yes. It appears to be. But this is very rushed. I have seen my schedule today and – Oh."
"Yes?"
Jake Lynn regards her closely and without knowing why, she senses his gaze takes in everything from the top of her ponytail to the toes of her comfortable trainers she wears at work. As if he approves of what he sees, he smiles at her.
The smile serves to lessen her nerves, as intended.
Molly taps her finger against the signature at the bottom of the page, suddenly intrigued.
"M. Holmes?" she says. "I only know one Mr. Holmes and he's –"
"A close relation," Jake says. "I assure you, this has the highest urgency. Is there anything wrong with the forms?"
"No. I mean, it's fine," Molly says. She bends her dark head to re-read the file. M. Holmes? Sherlock's brother?
"Ms Hooper?"
Molly looks up at Jake Lynn. Despite his obvious attempt to put her to ease, this unknown man remains frankly intimidating.
"Now that the preliminaries are out of the way, how quickly can you begin?"
OooOooO
Dear Readers, those who are still with me:
I wish I had a cracker jack excuse for my long absence. I don't. Just depression and its aftermath. But this, too, shall pass.
I am known for writing gosh-awful long chapters. I have decided that shorter ones, but more frequently posted, may work better for my readers.
In quick response to a query from an eagle-eyed reader a few chapters back, why do I occasionally use American terminology during Lori Hansen's thought processes or actions? Example: cell phone rather than the British "mobile." Simple. Lori is American. I have her pick up her cell, cross to her closet (rather than cupboard), etc. to play up her American background. However, 99% of my characters are British. And I endeavor to use the British terminology with them. I don't always succeed but if you spot something I have missed, please let me know.
I hope all of you are well.
Posting schedule: Weekly or bi-weekly from here on out, with the exception of mid-September.
Next chapter: September 7, 2016.
Take care, Always
'sky'